


The Death and Resurrection of Will Graham

by julesver



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Drama, Family, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Romance, Russian Mafia, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-14 10:22:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13005726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julesver/pseuds/julesver
Summary: Hannibal already made his peace with death, but when the frigid water of the Atlantic spat him back out, he is suddenly faced with the care of his injured betrayer. For three days he toyed with the idea of leaving, but before he could come to a conclusion, Will awoke and made the decision for him.Hannibal quickly realized this man was not the Will Graham that he once knew. He is wrath personified. Divine incarnate. Passion made flesh.He's the Will Graham of his dreams and nightmares.





	1. Fall

 

“This is all I ever wanted for you Will.” Hannibal panted. “For both of us.”

 

Will clutched onto the doctor’s shirt, leaving another streak of red on the silk-like cotton. A weak laugh escaped his lips as he was suddenly reminded of the years of shared betrayal and deceit. Abigail. Italy. Molly. Was their loss necessary to achieve this perfect moment of honesty? He knows that he should ache for their loses, but instead of anger or contempt, Will was too entranced by the older man’s visage; red eyes glinting with desperation, bereft of his usual veils and facades.

 

“It’s beautiful.” Will murmured, caressing away the doctor’s uncertain smile. Hannibal turns his head towards the touch, his split lips caressing the cuts and welts on Will’s hand as he sighed in relief. They are finally at peace, two men leaning against each other for comfort, recognizing the same monsters that lurks inside their hearts.

 

Suddenly, the raw strength and adrenaline that kept Will going faded into nothingness. Gone was the unflinching beast that stared down the dragon. He was left with his creaking bones and every sharp intake of breath made him acutely  aware of his wounds and injuries.

 

 _Battle wounds._ Will thought proudly.  _We are now comrade in arms,_ and there was no truer bond than one forged in battle.

 

Will was giddy at the thought, and he would've grinned if it wouldn't for the hole in his cheeks.

 

Hannibal noticed Will's swaying body and caught him before he hit the ground. Will blinked slowly, confused of how Hannibal could be so steady despite having gone through the same ordeal that he did. His wondering ceased when the scent of blood and cedar filled his being, calling forth warm memories of their many companionable dinners  _I am safe_. Will thought in both realization and relief, sagging deeper into Hannibal’s arms. _With him, I have always been safe._

 

“Stay with me Will.” Hannibal whispered, unable to hide the rising cadence of his voice. He was worried. 

 

 _How unlike you, Doctor._ Will thought victoriously.

 

The Dragon’s blood on Hannibal's fingers glinted like liquid ebony, a wendingo’s claw digging deep into Will’s arm. His touch hurts more than the stab wounds Dolarhyde gave him, but the pain jarred Will back to reality, to _their_ reality, where Dragons are slain and perfection was attainable.

 

_My name is Will Graham. I am a special agent with the FBI. I am standing with Hannibal Lecter, my frien-_

 

Blue eyes struggled to keep Hannibal’s gaze as they realized the gravity of his situation. Guilt washed over them, then anger, and finally shame.

 

Hannibal was suddenly reminded of Will’s seizure. Back then, Hannibal chest fluttered at the prospect of manipulating the vulnerable empath, but now that he’s faced with the same situation, his chest only tightens in fear. He cannot let Will lose the identity he had just discovered.

 

“My dear Will… Stay with me.” The man pleaded again, but his words only seem to agitate him even further. His pupils narrowed down into mere dots, darting back and forth as he looked for an escape. Those were the eyes of a prey, but Will was no mere prey. Not anymore.

 

Hannibal almost couldn’t bear to watch. One second Will was his equal, a magnificent creature of raw power and passion, and the in the next he is back to a mere man, consumed by the pressure and guilt imprinted on him by his fellow man.

 

 _It was nice seeing the real Will Graham, even if it were just for a second._ Hannibal thought, bringing the man deeper into his embrace, knowing full well that this might be the last time he could freely embrace the object of his desire. Will twisted and pulled against him, a frenzied protest rising from his chest.

 

“I am with you Will.” He said, his voice deep as he tried to swallow his welling emotions. “I will always be with you.”

 

He knew what comes next. Hannibal could smell it on him, the acrid scent of betrayal. The man pulled away, placing a gentle hand onto the side of Will’s bleeding cheek.

 

Stormy blue eyes welled up with tears.

 

_Hannibal_

 

_Let go_

_Save yourself_

 

Moonlight fell against Hannibal’s blood red eyes, and his tears making them glitter like rubies.His gaze remains warm. His smile, gentle. His hold, true.

_Never._ They answered

 

Will sighed and raised his arms, embracing Hannibal for one last time, and leaned them both off the cliff edge.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He used to fancy himself Hades, eager to tempt the beautiful Persephone with his pomegranate seeds. It wasn’t until now that Hannibal finally understood his role. He was the divine maiden, helplessly drawn to his intended, forever pulled back to Will's orbit, even if it meant plunging deep into the underworld, into the waiting arms of death.

 

Yet, in spite of that knowledge, Hannibal found himself content.

 

He has no need for a heaven, because the genuine seconds they shared together is as sweet as any biblical paradise. He held no fear of hell, because the knowledge that they will soon part is too great of a punishment for his soul to bear.

 

Still, he welcomed his fate, and would again if given the chance.

 

The waves below them roared, it’s ever-churning maw as fearsome as Jörmungand’s mighty jaw. Hannibal could feel Will’s duress wet against his chest. What was he crying about, he wondered. Is he mourning for the wife and child that he’s leaving behind? Is he weeping for his canine companions, all who will be bereft without their alpha leading their pack? Or maybe he is regretting ever meeting him, the snake that tempted him away from his idyllic frozen paradise.

 

 _It doesn’t matter-_ Hannibal thought, his heart light and unburdened. _-because we are finally together._

 

* * *

 

An eternity stretched between the cliff and the surface of the Atlantic, and before they broke the water’s surface, Will Graham knew that he had made a mistake.

 

Three times he had denied Hannibal, and three times he had betrayed him. Each one resulted in the death of someone he loved, and this one will also follow the same old tired script.

 

Why does he do it over and over again? It was an insidious circle, like an endless wheel of karma that he couldn’t escape from. Will thought that he was doing something right; rejecting the temptation of sin, protecting the innocents.

 

_Killing the monster that called out for Hannibal's._

 

Will was so sick of his own weakness. Every fiber of his being was drawn to Hannibal and he knows it, wanted it, even. The ever-present pangs of loneliness that made his heart their home fled, giving him space for joy, space to feel real  _love._ His demons was absent in Hannibal’s presence, but instead of holding him close like a priceless talisman, Will push him him away and settled for mediocre subtitutes. Alana. Margot. Molly. God, _Molly_. How in the world could someone so normal replace the perfection that is Hannibal?

 

Angry tears flooded past his periphery and soaked into Hannibal’s shirt. He should’ve gone to Italy with him. He should’ve reached for his hand instead of that knife. He should’ve invited him into his bed and threw his metaphysical scibbles away, telling him that his equations are useless now. Time did reverse. The teacup is whole again.

 

Alas, he didn't, and now his time has run out.

 

_-but Hannibal's shouldn't._

 

With every bit of his strength left in him, Will twisted his body and pushed Hannibal’s weightless body above his. Judas’s death might have absolved him of his betrayal, but Will shall make sure that his will make sure Hannibal lives.

 

 _If there is a God,_ Will prayed,  _then I pray he'll be merciful towards us._

 

It didn't take him a second to realize just how ludicrous his thoughts are. His god is Hannibal, a cruel deity whose favour brings him bliss and suffering. Will could only hope he had properly worshiped him.  _Because you are worthy Hannibal, worthy of my life._

 

The water hit him like concrete, and Will could feel the fracture forming on the base of his skull.

 

 _Live_. He thought. _Live and forget me._

 

Then there was darkness and fire in his lungs. On the edge of his blurry vision, he sees the ravenstag, impaled on a jagged rock below, and it was then that Will Graham knew that he will die.

 

* * *

 

TBC

Next Chapter: Hannibal stood watch over Will’s unmoving body, and considers his options.

 


	2. Death

Hannibal came back to life with a burst of water and air. His body ache, his skin stings, eyes burning from the seawater, but they’re mere superficial pains. The more immediate threat is the bullet wound in his abdomen. It throbbed with a heat that ebbs and flares to his heartbeat. The hole is an abyss of undulating flesh cruelly torn and savaged. The sight is enough to shock any layman into an early grave. Hannibal felt nothing but a faint pang of irritation.

 

He slowly traced the outline of the wound, feeling for any hard traces of the bullet. When he found none, the man took off his shirt and tied it firmly over his abdomen, hoping that it would somewhat staunch the bleeding. If he’s lucky he might stumble into some remote clinic and temporarily assume the identity of the doctor there. It would certainly give him to the medicine and equipment’s that he needs.

 

With immediate survival in mind, Hannibal finds his bearings while holding onto his wounds. Bereft of his suits and refineries, Hannibal looks almost savage, a wounded beast racing against death, with only one goal in mind. Vengeance.

 

The names in his list seemed endless. Alana and her family, for their transgression during his stay at the hospital. Jack for his hubris. Bedalia for her treachery. That one orderly who shoved his lunch a little too hard, spilling the already disgusting slop he is forced to consume. Now that his life hangs in the balance, their name surfaced again, along with the indignities he suffered on their hands.

 

But there is one name that he could never really add to his little murder list.

 

“Will…” He sighed, whispering it like it’s a sacred prayer.

 

There is a large chance that Will had succumbed to his wounds, or was pulled under by the relentless currents of the Atlantic. A cold rational part of him knows that he can’t afford the time to grieve, but he still stared longingly to the very ocean that may still held his William hostage.

 

_We can still be together._ He lamented, watching the receding waves sink his trembling leg deeper into the sands. _It may not be as you intended, but we could still meet again._

 

Hannibal is not afraid of death. He had lived a long and full life. To quietly wade into death is a much more preferable fate than living a mediocre life.

 

He knows how it goes. He will survive and escape into some foreign country, where he will live as he has always does, distracting himself with art he has already seen and food he already savored, while taking on lovers he’s already tired of, so he may distract himself from one irrevocable truth.

 

Only with Will Graham would he truly be complete.

 

And so it will go, the great Chesapeake Ripper disappearing into another version of his person suit, a benign old man who quietly ages and dies. Forever unseen, unacknowledged, like an artist without an audience.

 

He refuse to suffer such indignity.

 

“WILL!” Hannibal shouted for the man, all thoughts of surrender erased from his mind. He never felt more alive now that he had seen how pathetic his life would turn out without him. It was as if the beast inside of him was roused, and it hungers for Will.

 

The man searched the stormy banks, each passing minutes chipping away at his already waning. composure. It didn’t matter that he could barely see in anything. Hannibal needed to find him.

 

_Or at least, his body._

His steps turned desperate, heavy feet digging into the sand as he stumbles and grasped around the dark shores like a blind man desperate for purchase.

 

Will is the only one who truly sees him for who he is. He saw Hannibal’s monster and didn’t shy away. He fought together with him, used his own body to protect him. He shared a kill with him, and they reveled in a way that only monsters can.

 

How can he can not believe in fate, in love? How can he forsake such beauty for something as banal as survival? What is life if not the joyous moments we steal between our birth and death? To leave Will, to leave such beauty right after it was given to him would be sacrilegious.

 

Hannibal _needed_ him.

 

He imagined that this is what his patients felt when they took his advice and abandoned the confines of a traditional job to pursue their passion. Exhilarated, anxious, hopeful, like an exuberant child bursting with emotions.

 

Just as his fervor reached it’s zenith and despair began to surface, the clouds parted and dawn began to bless it’s warmth onto the dark shores. In the distance a single ray of sunlight fell onto an unruly mop of dark hair and Hannibal simply stood, stunned into silence.

 

Like a fair faced youth in a Botticelli fresco, Hannibal found Will between the jagged rocks, laying on a bed of wrack, shells and debris strewn artfully about him. It was as if the old masters had placed them there themselves, elevating the mundane into something sacred. Will’s pale skin stood in contrast against the craggily rock that rose around him like a protective nest. He is an angle gently sleeping amongst destruction, and he is beautiful.

 

No Renaissance painting, no Grecian statue, no macabre tableau in the would could compare to what he saw before him It took everything he had in him to keep standing and not fall to his knees in prayer. His soul ached to do so. Just as an artist requires his audience, something so divine demands absolute worship.

 

_If you would let me, I would lay the world as a sacrifice in altar of your beauty._

 

With trembling hands Hannibal reached out and placed his digits on Will’s exposed neck, counting each faint pulse and taking note of his shallow breath. A tentative sense of relief washed over him. Will is alive, but his lack of consciousness worried him. It may indicate a more serious injury, one that cannot be soothe with mere bandages and splints. It could be anything really, the bloodloss, the cold-

 

_-it could be the fall scrambling his pretty little brain on impact._

Dread wound itself tightly around his heart like an evil serpent. No. He wont let him fade into a husk. Not after everything they shared together.

 

He hate to destroy the shrine nature had created to shelter him, but Will required more than aesthetic to survive the night. Hannibal went to work with quiet efficiency, untangling each limbs and pushing aside wreckages. In no time at all, he had the man in his arms, cradled lovingly like a cherished bride.

 

With each step he could feel his legs creaking, but a greater purpose propelled him forward; a faint promise of a teacup, mended, not by the reversal of time or magic, but by the bond they shared together, each memory more precious than gold.

 

When he found Dolarhyde’s abandoned car, Hannibal is suddenly reminded of the their escape from muskrat farm, one where the threat of losing Will made him realized just how truly precious he is.

 

Thought the memory of their talk in Wolf Trap was one he could happily forget.

 

But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Even the memory of their most painful exchanges seemed precious to him.

_“I'm not going to find you._

_I'm not going to look for you._

_I don't want to know where you are or what you do._

_I don't want to think about you anymore._

_Good-bye, Hannibal.”_

Hannibal let out a vicious howl and slammed his fist onto the steering wheel.

  

Well, maybe not that precious. 

 

Hannibal push back his hair and took a long and deep breath, tempering his anger to a cool sizzle. This is not the time to be sucked back into the past. There are more pressing issue on hand, and with a bullet wound, he only have a limited time before he would pass out in fatigue. 

 

_First, a doctor._ As he inventoried Dollarhyde’s weapons and provision, he began to recall a certain old friend from medical school who he promised to call on. _Ah yes._ He smiled, tuning the radio to an opera station as he inputted the address on to the gps. _He would do just fine._

 

His rolodex may been burnt to ash, but Hannibal never forgets his victims, especially when they have marinated in fear for so long.


	3. Limbo

Hannibal arrived at the decrepit old home of the Edward family, and like many of his victims, he tried to slam the door in his face.

 

‘Tried’ being the principal word. Thomas is not the first to attempt such nonsense, and Hannibal was ready for him. With a firm foot jammed between the peeling door, Hannibal pushed past the man and into the manor, stirring decades of dust and desperation that seemed to settle on it's every crevice.

 

The sole survivor of the Edwards clan fell back, an old withered thing that reminded Hannibal of the rodents sold for snake feed. He descended upon the man, all shadow and malice, clasping his trembling arms while bearing a charming smile.

 

“Now, now Thomas. Is that a good way to greet your old lover?”

 

***

 

 

Butchering Mischa’s killers might be his first foray into murder, but Hannibal perfected his craft during his formative years as a medical student in Sorbonne.

 

Entering the prestigious institution at an early age, what Hannibal lacked in money he made up in both charm and intellect. His professors favoured him and his classmates doted on him, cementing his place as everyone’s beloved little brother. When he's not in class, Hannibal would spend his day in the preparations lab, working for a small wage that he would spend on black bread and salt. He was an aristocrat living the life of a starving scholar, unwilling to rely on his remaining family out of pride and resentment.

 

Enter Thomas Edwards, a rich American student banished by his family for fucking the help. Like many spoiled heirs that came into the school, Thomas remained as rotten in Paris as he was in America, choosing to forsake the opportunity for personal growth for the ease of paying his problems away.

 

In many ways, Thomas is everything that Hannibal is not. The American was on the cusps of adulthood, already twenty-three when he arrived, the oldest in their program. Constantly tethering between expulsion and suspension, Edwards preferred to spend his time gambling, soliciting whores, and just generally looking down at the French like most Americans does.

 

While Hannibal had no taste for people like him, Tom was in fact infatuated with him. To him, the young penniless count was an unconquerable fortress, beautiful and majestic even without the money to support his tittle. Hannibal may depend on scholarships and side jobs to survive, but he held a certain grace and dignity that the young American rarely ever encountered.

 

Thomas' passing interest turned into a serious courtship that lasted until Hannibal’s eventual emigration to America. Expensive dinners and private opera boxes became a constant thing for them, given freely for the cheap price of a kiss, a kind word, an intimate touch on his hands.

 

Hannibal knew that the man was starved for his affection, and the boy rationed each kindness in careful increments, rewarding behavior and praising his terrible ones, twisting Edwards into the very profile of a madman who would kill and savage his victims.

 

There is one gift Thomas gave him that Hannibal still treasured dearly to this day.

 

_“Do you love me Thomas?” he asked, gently holding the man’s cheek with his bloodstained hands._

_“Yes. Yes. A thousand times yes.” Tom muttered desperately, his eyes following the swinging light bulb, unaware of the needle in his arms, chock full of sedatives, hallucinogens, and illicit stimulants._

_Hannibal let the man babbled incoherently, humming his approval as he pushed more of the foul concoction into his system._

_“Then you should know that having a murderer as a lover would reflect badly on me.”_

_“A murderer?”_

_“Yes. Can’t you see? You killed that couple in Florence and arranged them like La Primavera. Look! Now you’re here attempting to do one by Raphael.” A bloody silhouette of a corpse looms behind them, arranged to look like the angel Michael smiting down a demon._

 

_“Oh no… That’s not good.” Tom gasped, his hands trembling as searched for Hannibal’s for comfort._

_“No. It isn’t.” the boy frowned, pushing him away, sickened by his desperation._

_He would prefer to castrate the man, a proper punishment for all the lewd advances he inflicted on him, but Hannibal knew that the police would ask question. This needed to be a clean case, so that when he is in America, Hannibal may start fresh without the suspicion of Police trailing him to the new world._

_“Please… Don’t leave me.” Thomas mumbled as he sensed Hannibal’s retreat. “I’m so scared darling.”_

_The boy smiled, shivering as a rush of power run through him. “It’s okay. You will see me again. I promise.”_

 

 

***

Hannibal carefully examined the unconscious man by the door, weak, feeble, and worn by age. Quite frankly the very sight of Thomas offended his base nature, but now is not the time to fret over something like beauty, not when he has an unconscious young Apollo sleeping on the sofa. Thomas will have to wait. The man deserved a carefully orchestrated ending for his tiresome existence.

 

Securing the mentally disturbed man to the chair was easy. Thomas was thin and malnourished, his body bearing the evidence of stress and horrors of his time in French prison. Hannibal know that it would be more prudent to kill him now, but the idea of dragging a corpse in his current state made his already creaking bones ache.

 

So he focused on tending to Will’s wound instead. Using the medical bag he found in the Dragon’s van, Hannibal made neat little rows of sutures to close Will’s many lacerations. Muscle memory came back to the surface, aiding in his precision as he steadied his fatigued hands out of sheer will alone. He will not leave Will’s face with a scar. It would be a sin to mar one of God’s beautiful creatures like that.

 

Frowning at his almost perfect job, Hannibal turned to his own wounds while stamping down the foreign feeling of inadequacy. He wanted to only present Will with perfection, to clothe him in fineries so it may enhance his own fine features. Will deserved that, and after their many trials, Hannibal deserved to witness his magnificence.

 

Failing to provide that for Will bothered the man more than he cared to admit.

 

_Just you wait my dear. You shall never be in want._ Hannibal murmured, using the icy anger nipping at him to fuel his own ministration.

 

The wound on his abdomen is tricky to close, and he couldn’t find any painkiller to make the process easier, but Hannibal made due. By the time he finished, his hand is too unsteady and weak, forcing him to rely on a surgical staple instead.

 

After dry swallowing a handful of pills, Hannibal contemplated Will’s own dose. He could shove them down his gullet with his fingers, but he feared that Will might could choke on them like a geriatric would choke on piece of potato.

 

_I would never let you die in such a pedestrian manner Will. Your death, our death death shall be glorious._

 

After finding a case of bottled water, Hannibal gently pushed a pill into Wills throat, and washing it down with a trickle of water from his lips alone. With one hand he cradled Will’s head, and the other gently massaged his throat, urging the medicine down to his stomach as he gave his watery kiss. By the fourth pill, Will began to struggle, and Hannibal soothed him like he soothed his sister on the day of her death.

 

“I know, I know. It must feel like drowning again.” He cooed, kissing Will’s lips to administer comfort to the sleeping man. He had hoped that it might stir him awake, like a twisted version of a true love’s kiss, but Will remained asleep.

 

Hannibal sighed and settled on the floor, his back warmed by Will’s presence he wrap an old musty blanket around himself. The house groaned, Thomas snored, and the steady breath of his unconscious partner began to lull him to sleep.

 

Hannibal dreamed of that glorious moment again, where Will looked at him with complete love and understanding. The dragon dissolved into a nest of bone, which Will claimed as his own. He laid himself down, finally at peace. Hannibal walked towards him, and he found his legs leathery and scaled, a massive black will raising behind him. He curled his massive body around the nest. If his kiss may not wake Will from his slumber, then he shall settled to be a dragon, jealously guarding Will from anyone who dared to touch him.

 

_After all this time I finally have you, and I will never let you go._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC
> 
> Next Chapter: Thomas wakes and Hannibal is too weak to fight


End file.
